


Hung Over (AKA The One Where Uncle Clint Takes Peter to His First Strip Joint)

by ArraFrost



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Avengers, Gen, Strip Joint, Superfamily, Superhusbands, Uncle Barton, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:58:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArraFrost/pseuds/ArraFrost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Barton decides to take Peter to a strip joint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hung Over (AKA The One Where Uncle Clint Takes Peter to His First Strip Joint)

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Serenity-Sky

“Uncle Barton? Where are we going?” The eighteen year old gazed through the window of his uncle's car. It was sleek and conspicuous, especially in this neighbourhood. People, of all various forms of intoxicated, were stumbling about the sidewalks, falling over themselves in the alleyways, or slumped and sleeping against walls and fire escapes.

“You'll see Pete, and you're gonna love it.”

Peter stared questionably at his uncle, arching an eyebrow as his father would have done. “From the looks of this place... not only am I not going to enjoy this... neither are my parents.”

“That's why we don't tell daddies now do we?” Clint's eyes twinkled with mischief behind the purple shades.

Peter sighed pressing his head to the glass as he took in the drunken stupor of the streets that were no doubt a prime target for high crime rates. This was the last time he would ever allow Clint to convince him that going out for a night on the town with your uncle was how you celebrated becoming a man. 

\- - - - - - - -

“Ugh...” Peter had attempted to crawl out of bed only to find his face pressed into the carpet. Luckily, his body already ached enough that he wasn't able to feel the damage falling out of the bed had caused. Slowly he lifted his spinning head and peered through squinted eyes as he tried to determine which way was up. Crawling forward he practically bounced off his bedside table and shuffled around instead, his shoulder pressed against the wall as he moved himself along the floor in the direction of the open doorway.

The bathroom was in less than desirable condition. Toilet paper was scattered about the floor and other objects were strewn about. No doubt he had been in here last night with the little coordination the events had left him with.

Gradually, Peter made his way to the toilet and curled up beside it, face down to relieve himself of the generous amount of alcohol in his system. Worst uncle ever...

\- - - - - - - -

“We're here!” Clint announced, smile wide on his face as he turned off the engine of the car and stepped out.

They were in the middle of a sketchy parking lot behind a sleazy building with flashing neon lights, one of which was a light fixture of a woman bending over against a poll.

“And where is here, exactly? Uncle Barton?” Peter glanced around as he took a great deal of time considering whether or not it was safe to exit the vehicle. Barton, however, slammed the door shut forcing Peter to slip out of his side of the car in order to continue the conversation. Closing his own door, Barton pressed the button on his keyring and locked the car up... although the effectiveness of that defense was questionable in their given location.

“There comes a time in every boy's life when they become a man. And when you're a man, you go to strip joints. Have I lost you, Peter?”

“About five miles back.”

Clint lowered his shades as he took in his nephew's appearance. “Lighten up, Pete. It's a strip joint. What guy has never wanted to go to a strip joint?”

“I don't know if you noticed this uncle Barton, but I'm awkward... especially around girls and this... I'm underage! I can't be here! My dads will kill me!”

“That's why they don't have to know.”

Peter rose his eyebrow once again, “You really think I can keep this a secret? Dad will smell this place on me and one look from Captain America... and all my secrets will  _literally_  fall out of my mouth.”

“Just play it cool, Pete. You can do this. For the strippers. The sexy woman who will take their clothes off for you.”

Peter shuddered a little at the thought of going to a place like this with his uncle. As cool of a guy Clint was... it didn't make the situation any less uncomfortable. Sure he could talk to Natasha about girls but anything to do with... sexual situations, he didn't talk to anyone about that. Tony and Steve talked at him about  _fondue_  a few times causing him to blush deeply and crawl under a hole from which he never returned but he'd never actually had a 'two people having equal input and intelligent remarks' conversation about sex. And now here he was... with Uncle Barton... standing at the door of a strip joint.

\- - - - - - -

“Are you okay in there Peter?” Steve's voice called from Peter's bedroom door. The heavy thump of Peter's less than graceful dismount from his bed probably alarmed Steve as the loud, unexplainable noises generally came from below, in the lab, rather than above.

Breathing in deeply, trying to focus on anything other than the four dimensions his bathroom had appeared to split into. They were all very out-of-focus and spinning dimensions too. He tried for a coherent answer but instead he was left with a long, exhausted and clearly hung over... “Yeeeaaaahh.” Before his eyes closed again and he coughed softly into his porcelain savior. It was the one thing that existed in all the multiple worlds Peter found his mind in and it was his safe place.

“I'm... going to go get your father. You don't sound well, Peter. Maybe we should take you to the hospital.”

“Naahhh.... Pop... good...” Peter groaned out, swearing the correct sentence that had rolled charismatically off his lips was:  _“No thank you Pop. I'm actually feeling rather good today, maybe it was something I ate last night. I'll be fine by the time I come downstairs for breakfast. Save me some toast.”_

“Okay, I'm going to get your father. Stay there.”

The sounds of his footsteps echoed down the hallway and Peter let his eyes roll back. He was incredibly  _not_  very cognizant of the world around him and exhaustion battled his stomach's urge to throw up once more as he laid his cheek against the toilet seat.

\- - - - - - - -

Peter's eyes darted around the dimly lit and far too bright room. It wasn't that he didn't know where to look. In a... place such as this it was made very clear where you should be pointing your gaze but that didn't mean Peter could simply do that. Instead, he struggled not to look at the scantily clad- oh look breasts- oh no look at the ceiling- it's a picture of naked woman... how did it get up there- look that man has a drink, let's stare at that- there's a reflection of a woman in only her panties- feet! Peter eyes on your feet!

Clint's hand slapped Peter firmly between his shoulder blades causing him to jump. “Relax, kid. Enjoy the show!”

Peter chanced a glance up to his uncle who had his hands on his hips, quite pleased with himself as he breathed in the intoxicating atmosphere. “How did you even get me in here?”

“Oh please. They don't care. Why do you think I brought you to such a bad part of town? The area might not be scenic but these girls are some of the best and they're clean too.”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose at his uncle's nonchalant way of talking about the respectful women that worked here. They probably didn't have another choice and everyone was exploiting them. Or maybe it was their choice and they wanted to be exploited. Everything was too confusing when there was such a distinct lack of clothing everywhere.

“Natasha's not here, she's not going to kick your ass for leering.” Clint whispered, giving him a playful punch to the shoulder. Peter narrowed his eyes, nursing his sore arm. “Let's get a table over there. Close to the stage but far enough that the girls won't see your blush.”

Clint pulled Peter by the arm, leading him towards a few empty chairs where he was pushed into the seat he promptly wanted to sink into and disappear.

As the music and the cat calls and the sensual smell of perfume swirled amongst Peter's senses. He sunk further into the chair and into his own mind where he hid from any and all acknowledgement of his current situation that penetrated his defenses.

“Are you sure he wants to be here?” The sweet, cooing voice of a female nearby tugged gently at his consciousness.

“Of course he does. He's just shy, aren't you Pete?” Peter could hear the smirk in his uncle's voice as his eyes refocused on the world and the woman standing before him... in matching black silk lingerie, with lace trimming that hardly left anything to the imagination... then again that wasn't really the point was it?

The woman smiled down at him, eyes thick with seduction and persuasion. The money she had received from Clint tucked safely away in a black and white laced garter belt. Peter's body stiffened as hers moved closer. Stiletto heels balancing her as she swayed her hips in a rhythm that the rest of her body followed. He couldn't remove his eyes from her as she teased him with the movements, inching closer only to pull away. Eyes on him even as she turned and presented him with a new perspective on the range of gestures her body was capable of.

A blush rose in his cheeks, unable to help the parting of his lips as he watched the silk straps of the bra fall from her shoulders. The clasp tantalized him as it fell undone and the black garment was discarded on the table, having served its usefulness of hiding the supple curves of her breasts.

Peter eyes flickered beside him when a waitress wearing a frilly skirt and a tight, translucent corset delivered a tray with a bottle and two glasses. Clint turned around, taking a break from grinning flirtatiously at one of the dancers near them as she maneuvered her body rather with impressive talent around a pole. Picking up one of the short glasses, Clint pushed it into Peter's hand. “Drink up, then maybe you can start to enjoy this.”

He gave a nod to the sexy brunette now squarely in Peter's lap before returning his attentions to the skillful blonde dancer.

Glancing between the golden liquid in his cup and the topless woman dangerous close to his crotch, Peter swiftly downed the drink, choking on the burn that crawled up his throat. Much to his dismay, Clint had been watching and promptly filled his glass with more from the bottle.

\- - - - - - -

“Peter are you hung over?” Tony had hacked his way into his son's bedroom and was now leaning against the door frame of the bathroom, watching his son gaze up at him from his fetal position against the toilet. Well... by hacked he had simply told Jarvis to unlock the door because the A.I. was loyal like that. But that didn't stop Peter from feeling bitter about his personal space being invaded... along with the loud, penetrating voice of his father grating against his ears.

Attempting to shake his head was a fail and all form of dialogue was obviously doomed to be an unsuccessful tactic against the great Tony Stark. Instead, Peter let his eyes shut as he reached up with one hand, activating the censor and cringing as the flushing sound drove into his aching mind.

“You were drinking last night?”

Shit... fuck... damn... Peter all but groaned if he were capable of human speech. Steve was standing behind Tony, arms crossed and eyes wide in disbelief and disappointment.

“Peter you're eighteen!”

Overwhelmed with a sudden urge to explain to his father, in detail, how well aware he was of his age, considering it had been him that had been doing the living of it for the past eighteen years... Peter was glad his mouth and mind were not currently on speaking terms. He chose instead to sigh and dry heave into his sanctuary once more.

“How did you get drunk? Jarvis has the liquor cabinets locked and I didn't leave anything out last night because we were too busy... with fondue.”

Peter shuddered, having learned what that term meant a year ago. The concept was still incredibly disturbing to him and were he more coherent and less in pain he would have complained about his mental scarring.

“You weren't in your room last night, were you?” Steve's eyes bore into him and Peter couldn't look away. Fighting the amount of guilt that Captain America could make you feel with one gaze was impossible.

With a weak shake of his head, Peter admitted defeat.

“Where were you, Peter?”

Peter frowned as he stared up at his dads who had thankfully stopped spinning around the room. “I... uh... Clint...” Was all he could manage before his the contents of his stomach decided to continue its previous conversation with the toilet water.

Tony and Steve exchanged unimpressed glances. Immediately Steve's cellphone was in his hand and speed dialing Agent Barton.

“Clint? Steve. I don't care how busy you are right now. My son is currently vomiting into a toilet. Care to explain?” Steve nearly growled into the phone while keeping his collected and authoritative tone.

“You took him to a what!?” Steve's voice rose to a decibel that even had Tony cringing. Peter curled closer to the porcelain goddess, wishing everything would disappear and leave him to the peaceful date he envisioned when he'd first crawled to his current location. “No, he didn't tell me that. You took my underage son to a strip joint-”

“A strip joint?” Tony's eyes widened in fascination, grin spreading on his lips only to be shot down by a deadly glare from his husband. Peter didn't miss the subtle wink and the discreet thumbs up his Dad gave him when Pop turned his attention back to lecturing the agent.

“-where you gave him alcohol? I would have you incarcerated if S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't protecting you and if you weren't a vital member of our team.” Steve gritted his teeth against frustration and anger. You do not mess with Captain America when he's pissed off that's for sure. “You're suspended. Two weeks. I don't want to see you, hear you or smell you for any of those fourteen days. And your uncle privileges have been revoked. No, Clint. You should have lost them when you took Peter with you on a mission to Greenland where he came back with pneumonia! This was your last chance. Next time you want to spend time with Peter, Natasha will have to be with you because I can trust her to smack some sense into your thick skull. No! A strip joint is  _not_  a feasible anatomy lesson for an eighteen year old! Nor is it a test of manhood. It's stupid and irresponsible! We're done talking Clint. Two weeks. Goodbye.”

The phone snapped shut and it appeared Steve had to restrain himself a considerable amount to keep from crushing the fragile phone in one hand.

“That went well.” Tony quipped, amused gaze shifting between his husband and son. “A strip joint? Really Pete?”

“Ugh... didn't...wanna go...” Peter had more words with the toilet, headache pounding harder than ever thanks to Captain America's lack of indoor voice when he was lecturing an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.

“But you did go. And you drank. You're smarter than this Peter. We expect more from you.”

Peter sighed at Steve's tone. There was no anger, he wasn't pissed off at his son like he was at Barton, instead there was only disappointment and that would always eat away at Peter's core.

“'m sorry...” He heaved once more, resting his forehead on the seat as he tried to steady himself.

“You're grounded.” Steve spoke clearly, his voice all business.

“Yes, that's right you are.” Tony followed suit, trying not to give away how proud he was that his son had actually gone to a strip club and that he was rather disappointed it wasn't him that brought Peter there.

“For two months.”

“But Barton only got two weeks...”

“Tony!” Steve growled, leveling his eyes with Tony's, making sure they were on the same team.

“Right, yes. Two months. Listen to your father, Peter.” He made an apologetic gesture to his son that was barely keeping his eyes open as he watched them.

“Jarvis, open my music folder.”

“ _Is that necessary, sir?”_

“Yes it is.”

“Steve?” Tony's eyebrows furrowed as he grabbed his husband's forearm. He was all too familiar with what Steve was planning and cruelty was putting it lightly. “Come on. He's in enough pain you don't need to do this.”

Steve ignored him, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “At the regular volume setting I have for Tony, please.”

“ _Are you sure this is a good idea, sir?”_ Even Jarvis sounded skeptical about this course of action and Peter would have been incredibly worried if he could concentrate long enough to piece together what exactly was going on.

Steve simply nodded his head causing Tony to groan and walk away from the bedroom. He wanted to avoid the punishment Steve was about to inflict upon their son that he himself had suffered years before they adopted Peter, back during the many mornings when he woke up incredibly hung over in the lab, at the kitchen counter, in the living room, on the floor of the hallway...

“Sorry kid... should've stayed away from the whiskey.” Tony muttered before his presence was gone from the room and replaced by the mind-numbing musical sounds of the 40s.

“ _There is a tavern in the town (in the town) and there my dear love sits him down (sits him down) and drinks his wine mid laughter free and never, never thinks of me.”_

“Oh god...” Peter groaned, grasping at his head, trying to block the noise from entering his ears but the volume was too great. It was surrounding him from every inch of the room and blasting into his head. Aching... pain... that was an understatement. This was torture. Real torture that was subjected to prisoners of war, not hung over teenagers being punished by their... Captain America wasn't the father of most people... this sucked.

“Pop! Please! Make it stop!” The pain the music was causing him thankfully gave him the ability to plea, to beg, to barter. He would go on to promise his father that he would never touch alcohol again, never trust Clint ever again, never go anywhere that even had a liquor license if he would only turn off the music that drilled into his head. But Captain America was no longer in the room. He had left Peter to sob quietly into the toilet as the lyrics danced on his aching skull for the rest of the morning. If he ever got the chance, Barton was going to suffer a fate worse than Steve's entire collection of forties music.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://arrafrost.tumblr.com/)


End file.
